


Between Idea and Reality

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Cliche, First Time, Loft fic, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old cliche of Jim stumbling upon Blair with another man reveals the fact that maybe Blair won't mind that Jim's attracted to him. But Jim runs smack into Blair's fear of commitment. As always, however, eventually love and power animals conquer all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Idea and Reality

Jim found he could see more stars from his own balcony than even he had imagined was possible. He put his feet up on the balcony railing, letting his beer bottle dangle, and allowed his gaze to drift and refocus. He experimented with masking peripheral vision, and blocking even more of the city lights coming up from below. He played with that, using a trick Sandburg had come up with months ago: At the same time that he was zooming in on the stars, he kept a significant portion of his awareness on touch, noticing the condensation steadily forming on the glass of his Corona bottle as the beer inside gave up its chill. He caressed the steep cliff of the label's edge with his middle finger. The corner of the paper wanted to curl. The glue was coming off. He flicked at it, still watching the Milky Way drift and shimmer. Two senses, balanced, equally focused. Magic: No zone.

He enjoyed himself for awhile, leaning back in his chair, head lolling, letting his neck muscles loosen, watching the sky. Then he sighed and closed his eyes and brought the beer to his mouth. *Pathetic is what you are. Sitting here alone on a Saturday night, waiting up for your roommate. Twiddling your senses like some old fart playing solitaire.*

He leaned forward in the comfortable, padded deck chair and brought his feet down with a thud. He watched the traffic along Prospect, listened without dialing up to the sounds of the city. *Pathetic.*

Sandburg hadn't called to check in tonight, but that was not a big deal. He had headed off in his own car after working half a day with Jim at the PD, saying he had a meeting and that he would catch Jim later. It had been Jim's night to cook, so it was no hardship to make and then eat some spaghetti and put the rest in the refrigerator for Sandburg to find if he came in really late. There would probably be some left for tomorrow, too. And spaghetti sauce was always better the second day anyway. Then, the television had not been appealing. The gym seemed too far away. So he had waited for the dark and then brought his second beer out here. He was waiting, waiting up for Sandburg, eager to see him. The eagerness was new, and Jim made himself examine it.

A more urgent desire for Sandburg's company had definitely been there since they got back from Peru and the drug factory and the visions with the black panther. The trip had been a big deal -- bringing back Simon and Daryl had turned out to be one bitch of an op. Plus, when they were finally home, there was Sandburg's declaration of friendship. Of partnership. It was embarrassing in its brevity, its honesty, and it had been echoing in Jim's ears ever since.

Sandburg himself had seemed... more solid, since then. Less tentative in his assertions, not that he was ever very tentative, but somehow more at ease. Kidding Jim more; less worried about missteps, about teasing him inappropriately or pissing him off over casework or over Sentinel research. The trip had been... well, it had been a turning point. Jim just wasn't sure what they were turning toward, or away from. He had to admit to himself the depth of his annoyance over the idea that Sandburg would bail on him and join the Borneo expedition. He also remembered how the guy's face had lit up, down in Peru, when Jim had told him, right before he went to scout the drug factory, how glad Jim was that Sandburg had come along.

Jim sighed. He had been glad. Very glad. Hence the softening of his defenses, the waiting up, the noticing more things about his partner. His friend. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he was definitely developing a thing for Sandburg. Which would be very nice, except for all the reasons it was very impossible, to say nothing of all the ways it was a Very Bad Idea.

First of all, the guy was straight. All the non-circumstantial evidence pointed that way. Jim had never, not once, smelled a guy on Sandburg, or seen any hint that he was interested in anyone but women. Then, even if Jim were wrong about that hugely important fact, dating your roommate? Mistake. Dating a coworker? Even bigger mistake. Carolyn had pretty much spoiled both those concepts for Jim forever. And the icing on the cake: The distasteful fact that Jim had come to need Sandburg in ways he hated admitting, ways that made him cranky and rebellious and pissed off. Because Jim secretly, reluctantly admired how Sandburg, well, handled him, and how Jim did hate to be handled. And yet. Sandburg never let him get away with shit when it was time to settle down and work on the Sentinel senses. He managed Jim's surliness with charm and with a sense of humor that Jim found irresistible. He never seemed to believe in Jim's bite, no matter how loud Jim barked. He never let Jim intimidate him, even when Jim sorta wanted to. Jim had accepted all this, but had warily chalked up all that dedication and patience to Sandburg's commitment to his doctorate. Right up until that declaration of friendship. Right up until that evening on this very balcony and the nice things Sandburg had said about Jim's performance in Peru, and about their partnership. And then, Sandburg had sealed it by not going to Borneo. That had meant a lot to Jim -- more than he could possibly say out loud. It was an article of faith with Jim that people could and would say just about anything to get what they wanted. What they did, on the other hand -- that was what counted. That was what you had to look at. All of which added up to Sandburg being something potentially very nice, in a very nice package. Except for the whole Very Bad Idea thing. Jim sighed and drank more beer.

A truck was pulling up and stopping in front of the building, a new Ford Ranger, charcoal gray, with a custom shell and local plates, Jim noted automatically, and it sat there at the curb for a couple of minutes with the motor running. He idly wondered why no one was getting out or honking, and he realized that he knew that it didn't belong to any of the neighbors, unless someone had bought it in the last few days. Then he leaned forward, interested in spite of himself, because the passenger door opened and Sandburg got out. Sandburg started to shut the door, then leaned in with a parting comment. Sandburg always had a parting comment. The engine shut off. Without entirely meaning to, Jim dialed up his hearing until he was eavesdropping.

"Okay, happy now? Convinced I'm not a street person, or living in the attic of Hargrove? So here's my building; it's just a building like any other; I'll call you, all right?"

"Come on, Blair. You could invite me in. It would be great to quote-unquote experience you in your own environment. I've got another six pack in the back there; we could have a nightcap." The voice was laughing, wheedling, and male.

*!!!*

"No, Kyle, really. I'm pretty tired, and my roommate's probably there, and I didn't warn him we'd be having company, and, you know."

*Really should not be listening in like this.*

"You talk so much about him, I want to meet him! He's gotta drink beer -- who doesn't drink beer? Blair?"

*Really. Should not be.*

"No, man, I'm sorry. I am. Not this time. I showed you the place; now you know it's real. I gotta go, honestly."

Kyle slid into view, backing Blair up on to the sidewalk as he climbed out the passenger-side door. Blair was uneasy, one hand resting on the open door of the Ranger as he shifted his weight from foot to foot and pushed his hair back.

"But, I just hate to say goodnight, you know?" Kyle said. He was tall and slim, longish brown hair, well-made clothes carelessly worn, a little sloppy, like he didn't care that he looked so artful. He looked like the bohemian academic type that Sandburg would logically choose. If Jim had spent any time thinking about Sandburg's type. Which he hadn't. Kyle closed the distance and put his arms around Sandburg. Kyle bent his head and they kissed. Sandburg was fully cooperating, kissing him back, his hands on Kyle's shoulders.

*Oh.*

Kyle murmured, "Can't wait to do all that again, you know?" Kissing. "Get you horizontal again, get you alone." More kissing.

*I really, really should not be...*

"You sure you have to go?"

"Maybe," Sandburg said, and then he started the next kiss, and it went on for a bit, the two of them pressed close and enjoying it, there on the curb. Jim couldn't stop staring. Then Sandburg put his hands on Kyle's shoulders and stepped back firmly.

"Good night, Kyle. I'll call you, all right?"

Kyle grinned and slid his hands down Sandburg's sides and pinched his butt. Then he climbed back in his truck through the still-open passenger door. Sandburg watched him drive away, and when he turned to go into the building, he looked around, probably checking if anyone had seen. Jim was so surprised by all this that moving out of sight hadn't occurred to him in time. Oops. Sandburg looked up and nailed Jim as he leaned on the balcony railing, framed in the light from the doors, and Sandburg's eyebrows went up. High. Jim was zoomed in enough to see him blush. Sandburg looked at his own feet, then looked around as if considering running away, and then he shook himself all over, like a wet dog, and started forward. He disappeared under the entry canopy. Jim sat.

*Well. Sandburg, in point of fact, likes guys.*

Jim was a bit, well, quite a bit, shocked to discover how happy, almost giddy, this revelation made him. He tried to be stern with himself, to stop the feeling from getting away from him, but he just couldn't. Sandburg liked guys. Sandburg _did_ guys. Clearly this had been some kind of an early-in-the-relationship date; it didn't sound like they were, what, going steady or already in some long-term thing. And why that additional inference should make Jim even more happy, he also tried not to notice.

*What about the not-dating-your-roommate-or-people-you-know-from-work thing? What about the frigging Sentinel project? Huh?*

Those thoughts couldn't get much of a foothold, what with the smile that resulted from the buzzing delight in Jim's chest, plus the words that kept repeating themselves, like what Sandburg would call a mantra.

*Sandburg likes guys. He does. Sandburg likes guys.*

When Jim heard his roommate's key in the lock, he called over his shoulder through the open balcony door, "Coronas. Cold."

He looked out at the street, waiting, but patient now, not restless, and he heard Sandburg dump his backpack and then stand still. He wanted to turn around, but he wanted even more to see what Sandburg would do. Finally he heard him go to the fridge, heard the clink of glass, and then footsteps approaching, coming out on the balcony. Jim's heart speeded up. Sandburg came and stood beside him and took a pull from his beer.

"You, uh, you weren't supposed to see that."

Jim looked at him, only half squelching his sudden urge to play this, to torture Sandburg, just a little. "I wasn't?" He tried to keep his face neutral. Who knew where this would go? It was a little like standing on that Peruvian cliff from his dream. *Jump!*

"No, man, I mean, you're a cop, right? Ex-military? At one time married? I mean, I wasn't going to inflict every single aspect of my counterculture tendencies on you. I mean, I didn't... I thought...." Sandburg gave up. He tilted his beer and drank, avoiding Jim's eyes.

"You thought what?" Jim's voice stayed neutral.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, all right? Most guys in your circumstances aren't exactly into the gay thing or the bisexual thing or whatever, you know?"

"So you've been in the closet, just because of me, all this time."

"Well, yes and no," Sandburg sneaked a glance at him, apparently getting less worried as Jim kept asking neutral questions instead of yelling or ordering him out or something. Shit, was he that intimidating? Was he that much of a tight-ass?

Sandburg started to smile. "I mean, I do like women just fine; it hasn't been, a hardship or something, to mostly focus on them for awhile."

"But this guy..." Jim looked at him, tried for calm and encouraging.

"Yeah, this guy." Sandburg cleared his throat, waved his bottle in front of him vaguely. "Kyle McLain, he's an instructor in psychology; he's new; he's going to work on his doctorate in clinical, and we met at this planning meeting last week for an interdisciplinary major they want to get going, and, yeah. Kyle." He shrugged and looked out over the city and polished off his beer. "It's, I, ah, it's pretty casual so far, really."

"Mm."

Sandburg glanced sidelong at him. "So you're okay with that. You're not offended."

Jim looked at him and wondered where the hell to start. He got up and held out his hand for Sandburg's empty. Sandburg gave it to him, looking puzzled, but definitely more at ease than he had been when he first walked out on the balcony.

Jim pointed into the apartment and raised his eyebrows and said, "Can I show you something?" and stepped inside. He parked the two empty bottles on the kitchen bar and reached for his gunbelt, a reflex, and the cotton shirt he'd used instead of a jacket that day since the weather had been so warm. He buckled his holster and was out the front door. Sandburg, still looking puzzled, followed, and soon they were in Jim's truck and driving.

"We have to go somewhere for you to show me something?"

"Humor me, okay?"

"Okay, man." Sandburg made a show of settling into the cushions of the F-150. "Lovely evening. Maybe your getting-stuff-on-display project could at some point involve food."

"Oh, so you're buying dinner?" Sandburg was feeling better; not so ambushed. Leaving aside how he had brought his embarrassment on himself. Okay then. Mission under way.

~~~

Jim drove, mostly quiet, not apparently feeling any need to contribute to the sparse commentary Blair offered. He pulled into a parking lot that served several restaurants and bars in a trendy part of Cascade. Blair was surprised that this was the destination; usually Jim didn't want to go to the trouble of eating in fancy places like these. Blair was still wondering what the heck Jim was going to show him and what it possibly had to do with Jim discovering Kyle. But he was tired and drained, both from the evening's earlier festivities and from the adrenaline ebb that resulted from not, in actual fact, having had to brace himself for giving the "gay, lesbian, bisexual and/or transgendered people are people, too" lecture to his all-too-intimidating roommate. He was hungry and maybe Jim would show him whatever and they could eat and it would all work out? For once?

Blair said, as he got out of the truck, "So we're going ahead with the food-gathering portion of the program?"

Jim just shot him the "Come along, don't dawdle" stare and walked off into the night. Blair watched Jim's back, his long, easy, "cop on a mission" stride. He sighed and followed, thinking of food, of the pasta bar at Emilio's up the street, the enchilada plate at Michaela's in the next block, thinking that maybe it would be for the best that he had made what he had thought was an error in judgment and let Kyle drop him off at home. He was out now; so, one less thing to have to remember to obfuscate, and Jim hadn't flipped. Or even expressed revulsion. Blair was too well acquainted with Jim's stoic masks, perfected in a thousand interrogation rooms and witness boxes, to conclude quite yet that because Jim wasn't *expressing* feelings of revulsion, he wasn't *feeling* them. But Blair found himself cautiously optimistic. He trotted along behind Jim, listing the potential upsides: fewer equivocations to keep track of, less need to keep censoring his reactions to stuff on TV or cute guys they met or current events they discussed. That, so far, had been a drag. He even spared a few moments to anticipate the pleasure he would get from arguing the politics of lavender civil rights with Jim, getting a handle on Jim's position, like they had done months ago with gun control. Blair giggled. Well, not that kind of handle or that kind of position. Silly how once you started thinking about sexual issues, everything became a double entendre...

He barely noticed where Jim was going until Jim paused to hold a door open for him and usher him in. Blair's thoughts executed a Keystone Kops crash and tumble. All he could think was a big stupid, "Huh?"

He looked back at Jim and frowned, but retained enough self-possession to keep moving, politely preceding Jim into the Mercury Lounge. A very famous and very gay piano bar, locally renowned for its martinis and for its soundproofed connecting door to Venus Rising, the extra chic, even more famous, even more gay dance club next door. Blair slowed as he was embraced by the dry cool air and the silvery interior lights of the Mercury. The place tried awfully hard for class, Blair had always thought, but he had downed a martini here once or twice, and he had found that the reverence-inducing reputation of the bartenders was deserved. It was the kind of place where they expected you to know what a Gibson was, for christ's sake. The doorman greeted Jim by name and looked Blair speculatively up and down. Jim was heading toward the piano. Blair lengthened his stride to catch up.

"Jim, you don't have to do this just for me, really... I mean, if you're cool with it, you're cool."

Blair's protest had been pitched for Jim's ears, barely a whisper, and Jim glanced back over his shoulder and kept going. Wait. Rewind that bit of tape. The doorman greeted Jim by name? And Jim had said, "How've you been, Ted?" And touched Ted on the shoulder? Uh, maybe he had had to come down here when he worked for Vice?

But Jim's glance back had been another "Keep moving, Sandburg" glare, and so there was nothing to be done but trail him to a semicircular, deep booth, red leather, which was quite near the black grand piano. The piano bench was occupied by an older man in a well-cut tux, who nodded at Jim, never pausing in his playing. Jim nodded back. Blair didn't recognize the tune, but it was something jazzy and classic. Blair sat there, dumbstruck, clear through Jim's drink order. When the waiter had kowtowed away, Jim turned to him and leaned back, spreading an arm across the back of the booth. He somehow conveyed both invitation and relaxation.

Jim said, "So how come I've never see you here?"

Blair just stared. Jim's mouth slowly pulled sideways into a portion of his crafty smile. A slow build of humor and revelation threatened to make Blair giggle.

"This is what you wanted to show me. The Mercury Lounge. And Venus Rising."

"Yeah."

"And that you know this place."

"Yeah." Jim was outright smiling now. The waiter rematerialized and put down their Sam Adamses and their glasses, tall triangular Pilsner glasses. Then the waiter actually poured their beers for them before he vanished again.

Blair puffed out his breath. "Miss the clue bus much?" Jim's smile got bigger and lazier. Jim sipped his beer and carefully replaced it on the coaster. Their eyes met again and Blair felt a jolt somewhere between his kidneys. The jolt turned into a cold sparkle, not unlike the bubbles rising through the dark amber of the beer. The place had frigging spotlights over the tables, just right for showing off the glassware, like a Budweiser commercial. Blair expected a young Frank Sinatra to come out with his bowtie draping casually over his satin lapels and start crooning, any second now.

"So," Jim repeated calmly, "how come I've never seen you in here?"

"Um, because I hardly ever *come* here." Blair toyed with his coaster and tried for coherence. "I've actually been next door a few times, but I used to mostly hang out at the places over by Rainier; you know, over there there's not such a split. Everybody goes to all the clubs. Hell, half the people at school are rearranging their gender identities on alternate Tuesdays anyway. There's not a gay club scene, as such, over there. But I guess you know all that, huh."

Jim nodded, thoughtful, and Blair cut himself off before he could devolve any further into nervous babbling. He sat there and met Jim's icy gaze, and found himself drifting into it a bit. Blair was warm and confused, and distracted by the crisp bite of the beer. This was Jim, his Jim, Jim of the cold stare and the sudden harsh laugh. Jim of the warm big hands and the deadly skill with a nine millimeter and the scary bad-cop rant. The Jim he had talked out of zones and down from dangerous bouts of cornered-animal, Sentinel confusion. Here Jim was, apparently sprawling purposely, even flirtatiously, for Blair, on display right here in the corner of the best booth at the Mercury, just like he owned the place.

"Well, that explains it," Jim said, when it was clear Blair was going to settle for the short lecture and not the long one regarding the exact location of his Jim-specific closet.

The connecting door to the dance bar opened and four guys came through on a wave of colored, smoky light and loud music, accompanied by a faint odor of dry ice. Blair passingly wondered if the carbon dioxide fog would bother Jim. Then the big door closed silently and fast, sealing out the thumping canned music. The guy at the big piano never faltered. The new arrivals claimed a booth on the far side of the room. One of them laughed.

Blair said, "I bet you don't go next door, do you?"

"No, they're not much on the kind of music I like."

Blair chuckled and considered his beer, drank some of it and looked at Jim again. He tried to imagine Jim dancing to rock and roll, even the old bland rock that Jim liked, but that was too hard. He tried to imagine Jim in bars, Jim flirting, this new Jim, and Blair shook his head. Jim straightened and leaned forward and said conspiratorily, "I think Brown has a lead on those jewelry store robberies. He found this abandoned van that matched the description the security guard gave us."

Blair easily fell in to discussing the case, and finished a second beer, realizing he was more buzzed than he should be, because he was still hungry and had had no dinner. He thought about mentioning it again, but remembered he had some leftovers in the fridge at home, and decided to wait Jim out, to see what he would do. It was all so surprising.

What Jim did was summon the waiter with his eyes and pay for their four beers without breaking the thread of his work-related conversation. Blair didn't know if he should be disappointed or not. Jim led the way out, and Blair followed, realizing that he was anticipating going through the door because maybe he would feel Jim's familiar hand on his shoulder or the small of his back, and then he could maybe see just how different this was going to be now. Blair had to wonder if those familiar touches, the kind of touches he got all the time, had truly been significant since day one, and he had just been so blindly worried about his own issues that he forgot to think about what those touches might mean to Jim. As per usual. *Self absorbed. It's all about me. Jesus!* Blair kicked himself for stereotyping Jim -- honestly. He felt so stupid. Some observer he was. It had just always been so easy to accept how Jim touched him without automatically thinking it was flirting. They hadn't met under flirtatious conditions, after all. Although Blair had always liked it, loved it really -- the feeling of Jim's hand on his shoulder, on his neck, he had taken it as a symptom of the Sentinel/researcher thing. He had unashamedly let himself enjoy how physical the guy was while automatically pigeonholing Jim as straight, off limits. Like one of his students was off limits. Fuck. Like a research subject wasn't definitely off limits. Blair had a pang, then realized that he was indulging in preemptive regret, yet again, over how impossible getting closer to Jim was, even as it was clearly getting less impossible by the minute. *Oh wait. Define "closer"...*

They got to the door. The doorman opened it. Jim preceded him into the night, never looking back. They climbed into the truck.

Blair watched Jim's sharply hewn profile as he drove to the loft, any idea of Jim stopping to get Blair dinner apparently forgotten. Yeah, he'd better define "closer" a little more precisely, and right away. God knew Blair had tried to stay objective. He had rules of research to stick to, after all. But moving in to Jim's apartment had fucked with his objectivity pretty thoroughly. And becoming friends with Jim when he was simply supposed to be studying him.... oh shit. It was a mess. He pushed the mess away, for the millionth time. Surely facing these contradictions could wait. Nothing about his structure for the diss, about the shape his paper needed to take, was set in stone yet. The research was going well, and that was what mattered. Jim was what mattered right now, his friendship with Jim. They had accepted each other; they had a working system, kind of a routine. And they were really friends. Blair, once again, resolved to think later, tomorrow, someday, about exactly how he would define his research parameters once it came time to formalize his data. For now, he repeated to himself, it would be fine to just keep observing and working and making a difference in the life of this Sentinel, this miraculous Holy Grail, gift-horse of a guy, and leave it at that. Data collection first, organize and theorize later. Much, much later. He was really good at deferring judgment, after all. Had made it a way of life, in fact. Hah. He had thought Jim was compartmentalized. He really should look in a mirror. Stereotyping, and denial -- and all in one night! What a command performance, there, Sandburg. So graceful, these psychological gyrations. What was next? Projection? Addiction? Don't even go there. He leaned back and inhaled. Jim parked the truck at their building and got out.

Jim was fitting his key into the door of the loft when he turned to Blair and frowned. "You never got dinner, did you."   
"It's okay; I've got some leftovers. Unless you ate them."

"No," Jim said, hanging up his shirt and taking off his gun. He folded his arms and Blair realized with a start that it was probably okay to just go ahead and frankly admire the way Jim's biceps bulged and made his black t-shirt sleeves stretch. "Some date I am."

Blair turned away, laughing and nervous, and went to the fridge. Jim watched him pull out his plate, unwrap the acres of Saran he had swathed it in to avoid contaminating the rest of the items in there with cilantro and cumin, and put the plate in the microwave. Blair commented on the spaghetti he noticed in the fridge and they talked about that, in a way that seemed a little forced and formal. When Blair was seated at the table with his leftover enchiladas, Jim sat down on a sofa and flipped on the television, but left the sound down.

"It's the semi's," Blair said, his mouth full. "Turn it up."

The Jags had washed out of the playoffs, but the Lakers were still alive. The comforting, familiar roar of basketball filled the loft. Blair ate and watched the back of Jim's head and wondered what would happen next. The game was almost over. Blair was rinsing his dishes when Jim came up behind him and waited. Blair felt his heart leap, and a dozen half-formed questions rushed around in his head. He clenched his teeth on them. He dried his hands as he turned around.

"I'm for bed," Jim said, and he looked thoughtful and quizzical all at once, and then he pulled Blair into this massive hug. Blair gasped in surprise. His head fit against Jim's shoulder perfectly; he felt smooth warm cotton and the sleek barrier of Jim's belt and the new crisp denim of his thigh, and he smiled. A big bright smile, against Jim's bicep, and he slid his arms up then, around Jim, and hugged him as tightly as he was being hugged. Blair closed his eyes.

When Jim released him, he said, "Goodnight, Chief," his face neutral, and went on upstairs without a backward glance.

*Huh,* Blair thought, and went to bed, but he couldn't sleep, and he pulled out the new Jungian crosscultural symbolism book that Kyle had told him about but it seemed too much, too far away, and so instead he turned back to Stoddard's last book on Borneo, which he had gotten half through before they had had to go to Peru to save Simon and Daryl. He read that until he fell asleep with the light on.

~~~

There was a Peanuts strip Jim remembered. Actually he couldn't remember any of it but the punch line. Someone, Linus, maybe? was thinking, *"Now that I know that, what do I do?"*

It seemed as good a way as any to sum up the new information he and Sandburg had about each other. Now that they knew this, what would they do?

Well, for starters, they spent the next couple of weeks at work and at home checking each other out, and not surreptitiously at all. It was fun to see Sandburg's eyes scan up and down Jim's body when he emerged from his shower. When his robe was in the laundry he had thoughtlessly come out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel, and in the past he had never thought much about it. But he did it on purpose now just to see the appreciation rise in Sandburg's eyes, to see his whimsical smile. And in turn, he let Sandburg catch him looking when Sandburg squatted to get something from the coffee table, or bent over to get something out of the oven. It was fun. In fact, it was fairly hilarious, Jim had to admit, that they had gone this long, carefully keeping secret this fundamental fact about themselves.

It had made perfect sense before to keep quiet. It was nobody's business that Jim went for men as much as he went for women, and keeping it a secret had made life as a cop much easier. He had never been a guy who went out much, even in his twenties, and face it -- he didn't really need the baggage that went with relationships now, even relationships as brief and painless as men usually made them. And you couldn't call them relationships. Encounters was more like it. Dating women was hugely complex compared to finding a guy for a night, or even a month. He did date women; he liked women, he had fallen in love with Carolyn, and the death of that relationship had also pretty thoroughly killed his always well-hidden romantic streak. But he had been too busy or too fucked up ever since the divorce to truly want to date anyone, male or female. Well, there had been a few spectacular exceptions, some of which Sandburg had had a front row seat for. Those memories were embarrassing. But he'd not felt himself to be, what, on the market; not at all.

But to have been so wrong about his roommate! He had to concede that every bit of data that he'd used to classify Sandburg as straight would have worked just as well, just as damningly wrongly, when Sandburg applied it to him, so he couldn't blame Sandburg for having drawn exactly the same wrong conclusion. It was pretty funny.

Jim found that knowing that Sandburg knew, that Sandburg perhaps shared his sense of possibility, that Sandburg was on his playing field, as it were, gave a fresh sense of wonder and excitement to everyday life. Something might happen now. Something interesting and sweaty and satisfying. With Sandburg. Who knew?

Working, waiting on hold on the phone, watching Sandburg come to his desk with a pair of coffees or a file or sit down and pull out his reading glasses, looking attentive -- the days now were normal and anything but normal. Jim mused. Jim watched. He wanted to know everything about this new angle on Sandburg -- to see if Sandburg, like him, was different with guys. If Sandburg was into romance, or uncomplicated sex, or what, exactly. But unfortunately there didn't seem to be anything going on for him to notice. Because Sandburg wasted no time in brushing Kyle off, despite their horizontal evening that had resulted in Jim seeing them together. Jim was both disappointed and relieved. Was it possible that Blair had done that because of Jim? No. Too soon to get your hopes up. Wait and see. Now that he knew Sandburg swung both ways, a little more data would have been nice. Oh, well. He might have less data, but also less jealousy, right? Jealousy. Hmm. This thing he had for Sandburg was definitely going to get out of hand if he didn't take care.

~~~

It was just so fucking distracting. First the whole Jim sees Kyle thing, the mutual coming out thing, then the tingle of wondering, of thinking maybe they could try it, that it would be fun. Then the sickening free fall of knowing that no matter how good it might be to push Jim into bed and put his hands all over him -- and just the bare outlines of that particular fantasy could make Blair trip over a crack in the sidewalk or have to squeeze the steering wheel of the Corvair really hard -- it was too risky, it could ruin everything. Then admitting that despite that, he did want it, he wanted it so bad, and maybe it wouldn't ruin anything. Then the tape loop would start again, distraction, desire, fear, recoil, and Blair would find himself staring at his computer screen in his office at Rainier, minutes having passed as he played the scenes over and over in his head. Sometimes he would catch himself staring, unblinking, at Jim's mouth as he talked to a witness or a lawyer on the phone in the bullpen. Evenings in the loft, eating, laughing, bullshitting as usual, sometimes he would forget and think it had already happened, that they were already there, already together, and he would just melt. Then he would get all cold and think, *Fuck! This is Jim! Jesus!*

It was so distracting. He couldn't figure out what to do, except break it off with Kyle. That seemed very clear. He had totally lost interest, just overnight. Kyle pouted and resigned from the interdisciplinary committee. Blair barely noticed.

One night he was sitting in a pub on the student strip, notes and syllabi for the next semester spread out for a new TA he was training, plenty of nachos and beer at hand, and he realized she was seriously flirting with him and that she had just draped her foot over his, and he started and lost the train of his sentence. She smiled at him and their eyes locked. Finally she said, "If you want to, it's okay. We could...."

"No, Carla, I really. I.... I just."

"I understand," she said quickly, blushing and looking down. She took her foot off of his. "So the final's comprehensive, then. Did you revise those essay questions yet?"

Somehow he answered her and somehow they wrapped up their discussion and he got out of there as soon as he could. He kicked himself for not noticing sooner that she was moving in on him, and then he had to wonder what was making him so goddamn jumpy at the prospect of flirting with a nice, legal, available, very cute blonde like Carla. What was wrong with him? He just wasn't interested in her. Not at all. He was distracted. Way, way too distracted.

When he got home, he couldn't settle down. Jim had cooked and left him a plate, and he ate it -- comfort food; meat loaf and scalloped potatoes, and he wasn't really hungry, but he ate and paced and Jim raised an eyebrow at him from his seat in front of the late news, but he didn't say anything. Blair went into his room for a while, but then came out and demanded, "Did I ever ping your gaydar?"

"Do I have gaydar?"

"Don't you?" Blair stopped beside the television, hands on hips. He didn't stop to analyze why he was so disturbed, and why tonight.

"Well, you're way too New Age-y, liberal and rebellious, for me to think you were following all those women home under duress."

"That's not an answer. Because the whole concept of gaydar is kind of a social construct, I mean just one click away from assigning stereotypes, actually." Followed a long involved lecture on gender theory, a relentlessly impersonal lecture. Jim listened, looking slightly pained. Blair was on, hyped, performing, excited. Full scale hand gestures and nervous hair smoothing. He recognized the effort he was making to over-intellectualize. He cited Dworkin, Foucault, Brown, Hooks and quoted some poetry. He finally wound down.

Jim took a breath and said patiently, as if he were reciting, "No, Sandburg. You never pinged my gaydar. Can we watch TV now?"

Blair flopped on to the couch, feeling strangely tired.

~~~

 

The fishing was shit. Too warm or too rainy or something. Jim complained like he never complained about fishing, and Blair caught the only trout they saw all day and it was too small to keep and they had to throw it back.

Jim had to ask himself why he was so grumpy. Standing there in his waders, teasing his favorite new fly across the relentlessly empty stream, he knew it was because he was going to try something this weekend. He could feel it; he knew he was. And yet, he didn't want to. He wanted to, but he didn't. And the reason why he didn't was just as unbearable as the suspense of knowing he was gonna go for it. He grimaced. Jim Ellison, detective, ex-Ranger, afraid of ... being hurt. Afraid of rejection. Right. This was the kind of thought process that was going to make him precede every statement to Blair, every impulse toward him, with "Don't tell anyone, but..." Shit. The punch of adrenaline that signaled this realization peaked and ebbed and it didn't make him feel any better. He kicked irritably at an inconvenient rock with the toe of his boot. Christ, he was moody as a teenager. This had to stop.

Jim turned to look upstream, tugging down his ballcap brim against the glare of the setting sun. The water began its fall about a dozen yards from where Jim stood, the flat surface breaking into silver, sun-touched ripples around Blair's knees. Blair was intent on his line, oblivious to anything else, strands of hair flying loose from his ponytail. He wore two ancient flannel shirts and a cargo vest and his new waders and jeans and a Seattle Mariners cap. As Jim watched, he pulled off his sunglasses, then tucked them over his cap and frowned at the sky. He brought his rod back for another cast. He'd gotten good at this. Jim watched him twitch the fly briefly, and then, apparently unhappy with its location, cast again with an easy wave, not even looking back as he flicked his rod, which had been a gift from Jim, actually. Blair looked content. *He* didn't look afraid of rejection. Shit.

Soon they would give up and slosh back to camp and grill the ribeyes that Jim had bought at that great meat market at the foot of Prospect, and then had packed on top of the beer, hoping to use some reverse psychology on the trout. Kind of like the idea that to make it rain, wash your truck. If you want to catch your dinner, bring steak.

Blair must have felt Jim's gaze, because he turned and met Jim's eyes. Jim shrugged and jerked his head toward shore. He was too far, with the noise of the stream, for Blair to hear him if he spoke, so he didn't. But Blair knew Jim could hear him. So he said, just as if Jim had spoken his thoughts, "Sounds good. Steak'll have to do, yeah?"

Jim nodded, smiling ruefully. They gathered in their lines and slogged to shore.

In the dwindling light, they built a fire, opened some beers, grilled the steaks and ate them reverently, alongside the dill potato salad Jim had made the day before and packed in blue Tupperware. Afterward, they washed up the few dishes, locked the rest of the food in the truck, and sat on the ground, finishing the last beers, watching the flames lick at the paper plates and the smeared paper towels.

Conversation was slow but comfortable, and they sat there until the stars came out and the insects were singing. Jim noticed as he brushed his teeth at the edge of their clearing that he still had that feeling of inevitability, of being braced for action. Buzzed on beer and full of the steak and the simple, comforting potato salad, he was nevertheless a stew of fear and resignation. He squeezed into their small tent and lay down in his bag beside Blair.

Jim listened for a long time to Blair's breathing, watching the shadows on the roof of the tent, watching the silver moonlight brighten. He could tell Blair wasn't asleep. This camping trip had been their normal spur of the moment thing -- Friday morning over breakfast they discussed grabbing the bags and the tent and the ice chest and the fly rods and heading out after work for two nights in the mountains. Their case had wrapped up Thursday and Jim could justify taking off early on Friday afternoon, since the next week would be consumed with getting things in order for the D.A. So here they were, at seven thousand feet, the rushing sound of the stream barely fifty yards away making a comforting backdrop, the air cool, the night friendly and still around them.

Spur of the moment, this trip, and routine. No different than always. Then why was Jim lying here awake, listening intently, so aware of Blair's warmth, Blair's breath and smells?

Yesterday's drive, this whole day, had made Jim so damned happy. So happy, so full of anticipation, of, well, of hope. That was what was so awful, even though it was wonderful. The burning knowledge that Blair might respond if Jim came on to him had crackled and crackled and built inside Jim for weeks. Eventually this feeling, this excitement, had burned through most of the barriers Jim was used to putting up against people. Blair lived with him, worked with him. They got along so well. It was so damned good! It might work! It might.... Jim smiled ruefully to himself. He had gotten used to thinking that it might even last. He had gotten used to enjoying Blair, even to admitting how much he felt for him. So tonight. It could happen. His gut was insisting it *would* happen, even as he fought the rearguard action against his fear of getting hurt. His fear of admitting he had -- say it -- fallen in love with his wacky, mysterious, mystical enigma of a partner. His sexy, energetic, beautiful partner. Fallen in love. With Blair Sandburg.

So tonight. Out here. Because it wasn't like being at home. It was less risky than envisioning starting something there. If something happened, if Jim pressed it tonight, it would still be ignorable if the worst happened. Whatever might happen could be contained by this forest, by the hours they would spend driving in the truck, marking off this weekend from their everyday. They would be able to go right on, if tonight didn't fit, if it was too awkward.

Jim breathed deeply and raised himself on one elbow and reached out unerringly, through the moonlit dark that was not dark at all to him, and brushed Blair's cheek with his fingertips.

Blair inhaled sharply and turned into the touch, but his eyes stayed closed. His cheek pressed against Jim's fingers and then Jim was closer, right there, sliding across the slippery fabric of his bag. Jim leaned. His hand cupped the curve of the back of Blair's cool neck, tangling in his hair, and he leaned all the way down and slowly tasted Blair's mouth. Sweet and damp, with just a little remaining of dinner, the steak and the dill and the beer. Tasting, touching. Blair's lips were fuller and softer than his own, and Blair was straining up to him, lifting his head, one hand on Jim's shoulder and one stroking his hair. The kiss was soft. The next one was soft. The one after that was wetter and deeper and much, much warmer.

Jim leaned up and away, suddenly hesitant even though it was all going really well. He wanted this, wanted to keep tasting Blair's mouth, wanted to touch him, but he was suddenly reluctant, worried about doing something unforeseen but inevitably wrong, worried about breaking something unnamable but precious by blundering around in the dark like this. Then Blair's voice -- warm, amused, and so sexy it made Jim lean toward him again.

"We gonna be able to do this without talking about it first?"

"Probably not," Jim growled. He lowered his head and kicked at his sleeping bag and rolled toward Blair, grabbing for him, and then they were pressed together, not kissing, just holding each other, uncomfortable with Jim's arm getting smashed by Blair's ribs against the air mattress, which was getting smashed against the ground. Jim's nose found the hollow behind Blair's jaw, under his ear, and they lay there, half in and half out of their sleeping bags, pressed together, warm and waiting.

Blair said quietly, "What do you want?" Not tentative, not demanding. Curious.

"I don't know. You. More of you."

"Oh, good. 'Cause. Me, too." Jim turned his head and they kissed again, deep and sweet and so familiar. "This shouldn't seem like I've done it before with you, but it does," Blair gasped.

Jim chuckled and pulled back enough to stroke Blair's cheek. He was lying over Blair now, feeling his warmth through the bag, feeling the thick bulge of his erection, loving the way he could press Sandburg down, incidentally bottoming out the air mattress. Jim kissed him again, tasting, licking, lingering. Blair's mouth was alive, opening for him, matching his.

Jim said, "Familiar." He closed his eyes and kissed Blair some more. Then he paused. He knew he had to say it, had to probably spoil the fun but Jesus it was such fear he was feeling now, twined in with the eagerness, fear and plenty of it. Fear and longing. He hated longing like this, wanting like this. It wasn't safe. He let his face hover over Blair's and let himself wonder if Blair was looking at him. He kept his eyes closed and felt the warmth coming off Blair's skin, tasted his mouth through the insignificant inch of air that separated them. "This won't be a fling for me, Chief. If we do this. And if it's gonna be a fling for you -- I won't do it."

Blair drew a shaky breath; Jim felt the gust of coolness across his own wet lips and he kept hovering there, but Blair didn't say anything and Blair didn't move. Jim noticed once again the core of sadness that he knew was there inside of him even though he mostly ignored it. It was the source of the fear. It was something he maybe should have paid attention to instead of the longing part, the "Blair is so beautiful and hot" part, because he knew, he *knew* that Blair essentially was not about commitment, that he was not going to go for it, that for Blair it would be, could only be, friendship and research and a nice buddy fuck and that he shouldn't have said anything. But hey. What did he expect. Blair had a contingent nature, that was all. A lot of men were like that; it was only human. What was bad about it was that Blair had this knack, or maybe it was a curse, for making people love him even when he never intended to love them back.

"I mean," he went on ruthlessly, eyes still closed, listening for the recoil of Blair's soul from his own, "I don't know, it may still be mostly about your degree and the police work for you, but, see, I fell for you."

"You fell for me."

"Yeah, at some point. And then the thing about your not going to Borneo."

"Yeah. I couldn't. I couldn't leave."

So Blair had been thinking about it, too, then, and that was nice. That was something. Blair had been thinking about what had changed, what had grown. Jim wondered how it was for Blair, but he wouldn't come right out and ask. He just wanted to do this. He just wanted to, hoped to. He lowered his face to rest his forehead on Blair's shoulder and took a breath and put his hands flat against the ground on either side of Blair's shoulders, getting ready for a pushup and roll over, getting out of there, calling it defeat before it had a chance to hurt more. Which was stupid. It would inevitably hurt. A lot. Jim knew pain. He did pain pretty well. He could go back to throttling this. Sure. It was just one of those things, like his divorce had been one of those things. And he knew, just as he knew Blair's knack for making people love him, sniff after him, the Pied Piper of Cascade, that Blair would facilitate a quiet denial, would let it drift back under the surface, where it was doomed to stay. He should have known that about Blair.

He put weight on his hands and just as he was about to push himself away, both Blair's arms came around his shoulders and squeezed. He let Blair hold him down. Wrestling himself loose would be both stupid and undignified. Jim rested there, kind of a parade rest, not relaxed, feeling the length of Blair's body under his, his chin digging gently into Blair's shoulder. Jim waited, poised between heartbreak and bliss.

"It's just. It's just that I'm scared, all right? I've got nothing to... I've got no defenses against you, man. You know it all. You know so much about me." Blair's voice dropped to a whisper. "You've got it all from me already. I... Plus, you know, I've never done this before. Commitment. I suck at that."

Jim rolled away then, and Blair let him. Blair crooked his elbow over his eyes. Jim leaned on his pillow. Blair did want him. It wasn't that, then. It was fear. He understood fear.

He watched Blair breathe, watch the shadows tick across his forearm and the cuff of his sweatshirt where it lay across his face. Jim was a little amazed that he'd done as much as he had, pushed it this much, as much as he himself was afraid. Better that Blair didn't know that. Jim looked at the other man and let himself wish, let himself want. He could see Blair's larynx bob and push as he swallowed. He could see the pulse beating there in Blair's throat, swift and strong.

"It's scary," Blair asserted again from behind his arm. Then he scrubbed his face with both hands and looked at Jim.

"You're pretty brave, Chief." Blair's eyes were silvery in the moonlight, and the planes of his face seemed starker and more sharply drawn because of the shadows. Okay, Jim had some numbness, so that was good. That would help, since he was going home lonely, horny and disappointed now.

"Not about stuff like this," Blair said.

One shot. He'd give it one more shot and then he'd leave it alone. "Blair. I want you, and I want to be with you. Commitment. Whatever you want to call it. Could you...?"

Blair looked at him for a long time and Jim waited.

"I'm really scared. I hate this."

"Okay," Jim said, and he lay down again on his back, putting a healthy two feet between them. He listened as Sandburg's sleeping bag rustled a bit, and then all was quiet. He dialed down his hearing and his sense of smell and eventually, he fell asleep.

In the cold clear morning, they packed up the tent, harmoniously bitching at each other, like always, pretty much, and Jim drove them home.

 

~~~

 

They tried to pretend that nothing had happened. A week or so went by. Jim was pretending and he was pretty sure that Blair was, too. Then Blair started banging into him, nudging him with an elbow or a hip, prompting Jim to touch his shoulder or his back the way Jim always had until the camping trip. Jim didn't realize he had stopped touching Blair until Blair started the exasperated prompting. One day in the PD elevator Blair actually took his hand and slapped it against the small of his own back and glared at him.

Blair started taking notes again, carrying around a pad and writing things down, like he was seriously working on his dissertation again. Jim hadn't realized Blair had let the note-taking drop until he started it up, but when Jim thought about it, he realized it had been a long time since Blair had taken notes or put him through any tests, either, and then the tests started again, too, but in a kind of perfunctory way, like Blair's heart wasn't really in it. Jim finally asked him about it, but Blair just mumbled something about loose ends.

~~~

"Are you generally a top or a bottom?"

Blair's question came from deep left field, apparently located tonight at his end of the sofa. It was weeks after the camping trip, the Camping Trip That Will Not Be Discussed. As he asked, he never took his eyes off ESPN. Jim looked closer, turned his palm toward the other man. Splotchy heat patterns. Cold extremities. Elevated heart rate. Oh yeah. That's fear. *If he didn't care at all, if there was nothing, he'd be perfectly calm.*

"Either, depending," Jim said, trying to watch the screen and not Blair. "Any particular reason you're asking? Working on a chapter on sexually deviant sentinels?"

Blair glared at him. Oh good. "If we can't talk about it at all, you should frigging warn me, instead of biting my head off."

"This is biting your head off. Give me a break."

"Well, you started it."

"Yeah, it should be a new house rule. No talking about it. Only doing it."

"Well, why should this be any different. Your rules. Your place."

"I know I started it. You're the one with the issues here, Chief, not me."

He stole a glance. Blair was determinedly, if reluctantly, choosing not to sulk. Resolution and honesty were slowly appearing on his face. "...No. I'm not putting this in the dissertation and you know it."

"So noted." There was a pause. The Mariners got two RBIs.

"So you're versatile."

"Yes. That matter to you or something?"

"It might."

Jim waited, trying to think about baseball and not about his pounding heart. After a while Jim got up and made popcorn and they ate it.

~~~

They were in the third floor conference room, copies of financial records that might or might not reveal skimming and embezzlement on the part of the local transportation union's executives. Simon had insisted that they give him something concrete, beyond the pleas of their informant, before he asked for some help from the white collar crime unit's CPAs. These kinds of cases were always sheer drudgery at the beginning, but Sandburg was good at this type of investigation because it was so much like research, and his company was nice to have. They, as always, made a good team: Jim had more patience with the slow amassing of details, while Sandburg had a knack for seeing patterns that would result in wild hunches on where to look for the next piece of evidence, saving them a bunch of time when he was right. And about eighty percent of the time, he was.

Sandburg, at one end of the big table, was bent over the records from 1994 while Jim, on one side in the middle, was reviewing the best stuff they had identified from 1995. Sandburg glanced around the big bright room, as if checking for eavesdroppers, though he knew perfectly well it was empty and almost everyone on the floor was at lunch. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked down again before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, you know. I just... I tend to overthink things and I hope it's not making you too pissed off at me. It's really hard for me when you're mad or when I just think you're mad."

"You want to discuss it? Can't we just get right to the awkward necking?" Jim moved some blurry copies of expense receipts to the top of his stack. They were obvious forgeries. Blair glared at him. "Silly me. Of course you want to discuss it. It's a spinal reflex for you to have to discuss it."

"I just. It's just. You never gave me any hint about how serious it was to you already, man. Not a single blithering hint, okay?"

"So can you do this, or not? Can we settle that first, if it's not too much trouble?" Jim's voice was still neutral. There was an odd, entertaining clash between what they were talking about and how they were talking about it, and if he thought about that and not about the hole Sandburg had put in his heart a while back, he might be able to get through this.

Blair stirred uneasily in his chair. "This could fuck everything up, you know? The diss is the least of it. The partnership! They don't let people who are, you know, couples, work together out there on the street, am I right?"

Jim looked astonished, like Blair had impugned his reputation as a marksman or retracted his belief in Jim's senses. "You're telling me you're worried about getting caught? You're worried about hooking up and then getting caught? You? Mr. Risk-Taker? Mr. Gambling on Basketball and the Ponies?"

Blair's eyes cut to the left, then back to Jim's. "Uh, yeah. I'm actually in the habit of weighing the potential for damage, yes."

Jim leaned forward. "Since when?"

Blair sighed. "Okay. Okay. I see your point." There was a silence as Blair kept searching through the file folders in front of him. He suddenly put both his hands flat on the table on either side of the file. "So your plan is, don't get caught."

Jim didn't look up at him, but he could see Blair's hands, his splayed fingers pressed flat on the glossy wood of the table. "Didn't you ever hear of "Don't ask, don't tell?" "

Blair chuckled. "Yeah, I have. Oh man. Oh of course." He ran a hand nervously through his hair. "Okay, yeah. I get that. Sure." He leaned back and looked at Jim. Jim regarded him gravely, but there was something softer, something less tense in Jim's expression. Hope made him reckless. He kind of hated that. He wondered what Sandburg saw in his face. The moment stretched, just the two of them looking steadily at each other, over a table of old paperwork created by stupid greedy people.

Jim said, "I feel a doughnut attack coming on, Chief. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good. Some more coffee'd be nice, though."

And Jim got up and went upstairs to get some doughnuts and coffee. He brought Sandburg a muffin, just on general principles. It seemed like the thing to do when you were trying to get into someone's pants. Jim was relieved that Sandburg was willing to go back to the paperwork then, instead of doing more therapy. He was certain that much more talking wouldn't help. Besides, confession was so tiring. And, he noted smugly, returning his attention to the stack of expense account copies before him, at least Sandburg had moved from "if" to "how and when." Jim wasn't sure if Sandburg had noticed this.

~~~

One night, shortly after the summer term's final exams, and also one of Sandburg's nights to cook, Jim came in to find that, apparently in a celebratory mood, Blair had made a kitchen full of complicated food -- tapas, he explained, the dim sum of Spain. Jim got the food and the lecture to go with it and the references to several thick cookbooks he hadn't known the guy owned. The food was astonishing -- each dish different, new spices, fantastic. Jim put away the leftovers and washed up. Blair had apparently used every single saute pan.

Then Blair suggested they stroll down to the theater block and back, to walk off the meal, and Jim agreed. He sensed an undercurrent. They talked about local politics and Rainier and there was some overlap because a poli sci professor had gotten involved in advising a candidate for city council. When they got back Blair carefully made Irish coffee, with real whipped cream and everything. They sipped it and found some baseball to watch and when it was clear that the Padres were not going to regain the lead, Blair sighed and put down his mug and slid right over to Jim and put his face in Jim's neck. His arms crept around Jim's shoulders. Jim jerked in surprise, but his arms came up and he hugged Blair back. Tightly. He grinned even as he thought, *Oh no, oh shit,* because he could feel them just melting together, reveling in the contact, in the touch.

He just sat there, enjoying Blair breathing against him, his ribs gently moving in and out, the warm puffs against his collarbone. *oh shit back off what if this is still a mistake* The fear nattered on, mostly swamped in the warmth of Blair.

Blair leaned up and put a hand on Jim's nape and pressed his cheek to Jim's. Jim had noticed long since that their height difference was much less when sitting. Jim exhaled so that he could pull in a big hit of Blair: Coffee and whisky and laundry soap and cinnamon and sesame oil and a bottom note of the sauted chicken. Blair leaned back just enough to look at Jim.

"Will you marry me?" Blair said.

Jim tightened his arms and his heart began to pound. "I thought you were scared."

"I was. I am." Blair leaned in and kissed him, and it was like getting brained with a board. It took Jim's breath, obliterated all the questions, and he tangled his fingers in Blair's hair and did nothing except kiss him back. Hard. Long. Thoroughly.

"I told you, you were brave about stuff like this," Jim said when he came up for air.

Blair just laughed and kissed him again. "You make me brave. You ... Got to step up to the plate, man. I'd be so, so crazy not to."

Blair was urgent now, kissing him, biting at his lips, pressing a hand against Jim's jaw to get his head where he wanted it and Jim found he was willing to let Blair take over here, to push him back against the sofa and lean all his weight on Jim's chest. Jim's head fell back against the sofa cushions as he slumped, his breath hitching as he felt Blair's teeth on his neck.

"Oh. Yeah," he blurted, as Blair's hand slid its way down to the front of his jeans. He felt Blair smile against his neck.

"Upstairs," Blair said, and squeezed once before releasing him. Jim opened his eyes to see part of the ceiling, a confusing angle, before he leaned up and gathered Blair to him. Upstairs. They were going upstairs, but Jim found he wanted to hold on for a little.

"Fine," Jim said, releasing his friend, leaning up, trying to stand and finding he was a bit dizzy.

"Bed's bigger," Blair said, businesslike, explaining, tugging on his hand. Jim grinned and followed.

There was a moment, as they stood beside Jim's bed, eyes locked, shucking clothing, when Jim almost said it, almost asked, "What made you.... How did you..." but the quirk of Blair's smile, his buoyant shyness that always slid into laughter, into teasing himself -- and all in his expression, all without words -- stopped Jim before he even opened his mouth. Blair was right here, warm, vivid, laughing inside, bubbling with it, staring at Jim and daring him to stop, to question, to pull back. And since Jim really didn't want to, he didn't.

He waited for Blair to kick his socks from in between them and then Jim stepped close and put his arms around his roommate. It made Jim whuff out his breath, the armful of warm joyful male animal. He had to close his eyes against the multiple assault of smell, warmth, skin and breath. He tipped his face against Blair's coarse, wavy hair and inhaled. Blair's palms smoothed down his back, Jim's cock bumped his hip, and they were falling, easily, willingly, to lie side by side on the bed. Blair reached up petted Jim's hair.

"Can I fuck you?" he said, and Jim's eyebrows went up.

"On the first date?"

"First date!" Blair argued. He leaned in and kissed Jim, an explosion of whisky and warmth and soft plush lips. "You know we've been married for years."

Jim laughed against his mouth, trying to keep up, trying to find his place. He pushed and Blair gave, and they rolled so that Jim could lean on Blair's chest, petting and kissing, drawn back, over and over, to that mouth, the white teeth, the smile. Kissing Blair's smile like he had wanted to for years, feeling it, experiencing it with his own mouth the way he'd reveled in it with his eyes. He pulled back and inhaled, looking, just looking. Red mouth, blue eyes -- so inadequate, these words, these descriptions. Blair was alive, alive and real and under him. Warm and deceptively compliant, for the moment. Jim pushed with his hips, leaning on his elbow, slithering a bit to line them up, making Blair's breath catch and his eyes fall shut.

"Yeah, we could do that," Jim said, and just thinking about it made him harder. Blair opened his eyes and got that determined look on his face, like he'd just realized the only way out of some mess they were in at a crime scene was going through it. Determined was a look Jim liked on him, and Blair rolled them over again and put his hands in Jim's hair again and started kissing his way down Jim's body.

Blair said, between kisses, "I'm in no hurry, though. Just if you were wondering."

"I've got all night, Chief," Jim said blithely, his hands in Blair's curls. "All night."

~~~

It was hearing that came back first, then smell. The tidal pull of Blair's sleeping heartbeat, and then the salty tang of his skin. Jim opened his eyes to the familiar slice of sunshine through the skylight, to find that Blair was clinging to his back like Carolyn used to. He smiled and raised a hand to fold over Blair's hand on his arm. He lay there, hearing and smelling, feeling the pleasant heat of chest and belly against his back. Then he turned over, increment by increment, not wanting to wake Blair but wanting very much to see him. Dusting of dark stubble, curls highlighted with gold, tracery of purple veins on his eyelids. Blair slept, relaxed and content in Jim's bed, as if he'd always been there.

Jim carefully doubled a pillow under his head so he could just look. Eventually the light and some kind of internal clock conspired together to make Blair stir and stretch and open his eyes. When their eyes met, Jim could feel it -- a click, like puzzle pieces locking into place; a pleasant zap, like a circuit being completed.

Blair grinned at him, the same irrepressible grin Jim had seen in the bullpen a million times. Jim was relieved. Things wouldn't be so different, then. Funny how all the reasons Jim had once had for not doing this with his roommate, with his partner, were just... gone. As gone, apparently, as Blair's fears. Funny how inevitable and easy and _right_ it all seemed now, this morning, the morning after the night before. Funny how easy it was to look at Blair and know there was nowhere in Jim's life he wasn't. Now. This morning. Jim laid a hand on Blair's cheek, as if to absorb his smile through the skin of his palm. Jim was smiling, too, but couldn't really hope to match the brightness of Blair's expression, the brightness, the light, that was Blair.

end


End file.
